


Can't Drink You Away

by high_functioning_timelord



Series: Dean's Private Traxx [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bisexual Disaster Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Does Karaoke, Dean Winchester is smart about being stupid, Drinking to Forget, Drunk Dean Winchester, Emotional Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Homophobic/Abusive John Winchester, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining Dean Winchester, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_functioning_timelord/pseuds/high_functioning_timelord
Summary: Between the beers he’d downed while hustling pool and the fancy whisky provided by tonight’s Handsome Stranger #2, Dean was well on his way to having a truly epic hangover.But he didn’t care. He never came here with the intention of leaving sober. Or alone.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Other(s)
Series: Dean's Private Traxx [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2127603
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58
Collections: Destiel Bunker: Smut





	Can't Drink You Away

**Author's Note:**

> **Based on the song "Drink You Away" by Trent Harmon.** I _highly_ recommend listening to it prior to/while reading!
> 
> It's the first song on this "Dean's Private Traxx" playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jq0RPmYfsz2gayBAbhjai?si=6fZb8FyyQ-GfZcHVrjv2UQ
> 
> Lots of pining/angst here. Mostly Dean hooking up with other folks. If you’re looking for smuttier Cas/Dean content, that’ll be in the sequel <3 It’s gonna be based on "Under Your Scars" by Godsmack.
> 
> Fun Facts in the end notes <3

Dean slammed his shot glass down on the bar, the sound of it drowned out by the buzz of the heavily intoxicated patrons, or maybe the buzzing was just in his head? Dean couldn’t be sure. This was his fifth— no no, _seventh —_ drink of the night.

Between the beers he’d downed while hustling pool, and the fancy whisky provided by tonight’s Handsome Stranger #2, Dean was well on his way to having a truly epic hangover.

But he didn’t care. He never came here with the intention of leaving sober. Or alone.

The plan was always the same: drink, shoot pool, and get laid. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Then, after a hard night’s work, he’d sleep it off in the Impala. Because he might be an idiot about some things, but he wasn’t _that_ kind of idiot.

Sam had stopped asking him where he was running off to every night weeks ago. He knew. Well, maybe he didn’t know the whole truth, but he knew enough to know not to ask.

* * *

When it came to the hook-up part of the evening, Dean didn’t care whether he was getting slammed against a heavily graffitied bathroom wall, or bent over in the back alley, or getting plowed in the back of some cowboy’s truck. Just as long as he had a willing Jack, Jim, or the occasional Jane to fuck him absolutely senseless, he called the night a success.

His only rules were:

1\. Condoms (obviously), and

2\. Baby was absolutely off-limits.

Sure, he’d banged it out in Baby with plenty of top-notch babes before, but that was _before_. Before, when he could take his sweet time enjoying the feel of a new body under, over, and inside of him. Before, when his mind could whip up countless prime jerk-off scenarios, one right after the other, before his pants even hit his ankles.

But now, well. Now was _now_. When the only thing Dean could see while some sweet new thing climbed his frame was a pair of desperate blue eyes and a matching silk tie.

* * *

_“I can’t driiiiink you awaaay”_

The cheap bar speakers garbled out that crappy new country song for what felt like the twentieth time of the evening. Clearly, some pop star was just trying his hand at the genre, because this was definitely _not_ country. That being said, Dean had to admit that he didn’t exactly hate it. He‘d actually caught himself mouthing along to the lyrics once or twice, before clamping his mouth shut and taking another swig of beer.

_“I’ve tried Jack, I’ve tried Jim, I’ve tried alllll of their friends”_

_Hell, if that ain’t the truth,_ Dean thought. They say the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else, and Dean was determined to put that theory through its paces. He’d tried every Jack, Jim, and Joe Shmoe that‘d waltzed into this place for months, but he still couldn’t shake the image of that all-too-familiar trench coat, discarded and forgotten on his bedroom floor.

By the second chorus, Dean was usually tapping his foot absentmindedly and humming along under his breath, because the song had the nerve to be maddeningly catchy, and the lyrics seemed designed especially to torture him.

 _“A thousand proof, don't change the truth, that_ _I’m not okay”_

 _Damn it._ He really didn’t wanna think about this right now. In fact, Dean came here specifically to not think about this. Or anything. At all. So if not for this damn song, he'd be having exactly zero thoughts about this _thing_ that he and Castiel may or may not have been dancing around these past few weeks. Hell, these past few _years_.

Or, maybe Dean was reading too much into things. Maybe Cas had absolutely no idea what all those lingering stares and invasions of personal space where doing to him. Maybe Dean was just spinning fantasies out of nothing. Over the years, Dean had grown accustomed to writing off a lot of weird crap as just Castiel not knowing how to be a human.

But Dean was pretty damn sure he hadn't imagined the look that Castiel had given him that night.

* * *

Dean had been reading in his room, some old case files Sammy had dredged up, when Castiel suddenly materialised in his doorway, bleeding and gasping for air. He took one shaky step forward, then collapsed, sprawling out on the floor, eyes wide, chest heaving. Dean was by his side in a second, yanking off his trench coat, and scanning him, trying to find the problem. It looked like someone - or some thing - had sliced a shallow, but gnarly looking gash straight through his dress shirt, just below his rib cage. Several bruises were already taking shape across his cheekbones and forearms, and his knuckles were bloodied all to hell, but otherwise, he seemed okay.

“Jesus, Cas.”

Dean grabbed his first aid kit off the wall, wet a washcloth in the sink, then set to work cleaning him up.

“I didn’t-“ Cas started, then broke into a fit of coughs. Long, ragged, and dry. As his throat muscles flexed and shuddered, Dean caught a glimpse of the telltale marks wrapped around it; someone had been choking him.

Cas took a couple deep breaths, calming himself down. “I used the last of my grace to here,” he wheezed, wincing as Dean smeared antibacterial into his cut. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Here,” Dean replied firmly, still working on his wounds, “Anything like this happens again, you come straight here, you hear me?”

Cas nodded, then looked down at his wound, watching Dean work.

He didn’t seem like he was in imminent danger anymore, but Dean’s mind was still going haywire, trying to sort out what Cas needed, and how the hell he got himself into this mess, why he’d gone out there when he wasn’t powered up, and how he could be so stupid and reckless and-

“Dean.”

Castiel’s voice cut through his anxious spiral, his hand squeezing Dean’s forearm.

Dean looked down and watched Cas’s hand for a moment, marvelling at how easy, and natural it felt for the angel’s thumb to be brushing over his skin, soothing him.

Then Dean had looked up, and he stopped breathing.

The angel’s eyes were fixed on him, those brilliant blue orbs peering up at him through dark lashes, round and glossy. He looked like he was in pain, somehow, and not just from his injuries. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were welling up around the edges, threatening to spill over. Dean almost wrote it off as some sort of sadness, or grief, maybe something over he’d just done, but there was a darkness there too; a hunger, lurking beneath the surface. Something sharp, and ravenous. Begging to be sated.

Dean swallowed. His throat had gone dry, and he realised he’d had his mouth open for far too long, his shallow breaths rasping in and out while his jaw worked silently, as if trying to form an answer to a question he hadn’t even been asked. His tongue felt too big, and his throat fell too small, and he realized that he was holding his breath, again, waiting to see if the angel would take pity on him and break the growing silence, but his next syllable never came. Castiel just looked at Dean, every ounce of his essence laid bare. Wordlessly pleading, hoping, yearning.

This was it, Dean realized. This was his moment. All he had to do was get his mouth to cooperate, and then everything would be all laid out in clear, black-and-white terms. Everything would finally be out in the open, and maybe he’d be able to breathe again.

He took a deep breath, then began.

“Cas, I-"

“Thank you, Dean,” he interrupted.

Castiel’s eyes had fallen to the floor, breaking their intense, prolonged contact.

“I… appreciate your assistance.”

Dean just stared at him, blankly, floored by his rapid change of gears.

“I, uh, yeah,” Dean had said, forcibly shifting his mind back into neutral. “Yeah, of course, Cas. Anytime.”

* * *

It had been a two months since then. Castiel had hardly said two words to him since, and he seemed determined not to be left alone with Dean during any of his all-too-brief visits.

So now, Dean had been cursed to spend every single night reliving that memory, with only the sweet release of an ethanol-induced blackout to free him.

Right now, only seven drinks in, Dean was definitely not thinking about Castiel dropping to his knees, his trench coat pooling on the floor of Dean’s bedroom, gasping for air. Dean was obviously not imagining a hand gripping his forearm, heat searing into his skin, the pull and the pressure of it tugging at something in his chest. And Dean was _categorically_ not thinking about those desperate, pleading eyes peering up at him, or the teeth worrying away at those chapped lips, with a pink tongue just peaking out to lick-

“Uhh.. Dean?”

Dean blinked, disoriented. He shook his head, trying to force himself back into his own body. He resolutely shoved Castiel, and all his associated imagery, to the very back corner of his mind, for what felt like the billionth time that day.

Tonight’s fling (Jaime? Jessie?) chuckled and leaned closer to Dean’s barstool, sliding a hand further up Dean’s thigh.

 _Great. Now I’m getting distracted from my distractions,_ Dean thought.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, and resumed focus.

“Ah, sorry about that,” said Dean, donning his best fuck-me smirk. “What‘d you say, sweetheart?”

Stranger #3 (Jordan? yeah, that was it) smiled at him devilishly, then leaned in close, lips brushing against the shell of Dean’s ear.

“I said, I’ll see you outside in, say, 5 minutes?”

Dean’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sure, sounds great.”

Jordan squeezed Dean’s thigh again, unfazed by Dean’s lackluster grin, then sauntered off towards the door.

Dean watched with whiskey-glazed eyes, his gaze slowly slipping down to linger on that perfectly peachy backside. Dean smirked as Jordan turned back, catching him staring, then threw him a cheeky smile and a wink, before disappearing into the back alley.

 _Oh yeah,_ Dean thought. _This is gonna be fun._

* * *

It was just alright.

Jordan was a decent lay, sure. That ass had felt just as firm as it looked, and Dean took full advantage, hands roaming and squeezing while Jordan pinned him against the wall, plundering his mouth possessively. But as soon as Jordan flipped Dean around, expert fingers sliding inside his jeans and working him open, all Dean could see was white-hot blue eyes and full lips mouthing his name.

_“Dean”_

* * *

When he came back inside, the bar was empty, except for the bartender, who was putting up the last couple chairs on the tables. She saw Dean, then motioned over to the bar top, where a pitcher of water and a glass were waiting.

“Thanks, Cheryl.” Dean sank down at the bar and poured himself glass, gulping it down in one go, then poured another.

Cheryl slipped behind the bar and grabbed a towel, wetting it down with a spray bottle and rubbing at the various surfaces.

“Did I see that right?” she asked over her shoulder, “Two pulls in one night?”

“Three,” Dean replied smoothly, “If you count both of ‘em from that two-fer.”

Cheryl laughed, loud and throaty, shaking her head.

“Boy, those were the days. Think you can lend me some of that stamina?“

Dean chuckled. “Sorry, fresh out." He took another gulp of water, then topped up his glass.

Cheryl had been looking out for him since basically his first night in here. She’d started off slow, just plying him with water, then gradually she started telling him who’d been asking about him, pointing out the troublemakers from the keepers, then eventually, and most importantly, she would hold his keys hostage until the end of the night (that last one was Dean’s idea).

When Dean had finally gotten around to asking why she did it, she just shrugged and said she hadn’t seen business this hot since he’d started coming in, and she suspected his growing “fan club” was the reason. But Dean got the feeling it was more than that. Maybe she just wanted some company, or maybe she had the hots for him, or maybe he reminded her of someone. Dean was pretty sure it was option number two - he was a bit of a MILF-magnet after all - until he noticed the way she touched the small photo behind the bar every night, kissing her fingers then pressing them to the frame. Dean had considering asking about it, but he figured if Cheryl had wanted him to know, she would’ve told him by now.

After-closing-banter with Cheryl was quickly becoming one of Dean’s favorite parts of his nightly ritual. She loved living vicariously though all his illicit encounters, pressing him for all the dirty details, and she never once guilt-tripped him for sleeping around. She hardly even batted an eye when Dean picked up his first cowboy there. Cheryl only had one rule, which she instituted after Dean’s third night there: keep the bathroom free for customers.

Dean had to admit, it was kinda nice to have someone looking out for him for a change. Cheryl wasn’t all judgy-judge like he knew Sam would be, and she didn’t try to scold or lecture him like Bobby might’ve. All she cared about was that he was safe, sober, and happy.

Well. Two outta three ain’t bad.

She’d even caught wind of his whole Cas situation, though Dean figured it was pretty obvious after he’d sung one-too-many drunken renditions of that cheesy new song on karaoke nights. Dean always dedicated his performance to Cheryl, saying it was his way of thanking her for not letting him go too far off the rails.

But really, if he was being honest with himself - a rare feat for Dean - he sang it more for the cathartic release of actually admitting, out-loud, that he was in way over his head with someone way out of his league. He knew an admission like that was vague and convoluted at best when expressed through drunken pop-country karaoke, but it was a big improvement on Dean’s standard issue “avoid-all-feelings-at-all costs” strategy, which unsurprisingly, hadn’t been doing jack shit either. But still, despite all his efforts - no matter how much he drank, and fucked, and blacked out every single night for months on end - his mind and his dick (and okay, maybe a bit of his heart too) couldn’t seem to let Castiel go.

Cheryl grunted as climbed off her step ladder, and the noise jolted Dean back to the present. She chuckled when she saw him start and then, seeing that all-too-familiar look on his face, walked over to where he was sitting and leaned across the bar top.

“Listen sugar,” she said, summoning the full power of her southern matriarch charm, “I don’t know what sorta man your Mr. Blue-Eyes is, and granted even I haven’t seen the entire _package_ myself,” she peaked over the bar suggestively, then laughed and ducked as Dean playfully swatted her away.

“ _But_ ,” she continued, “Ialready know that man is a damn fool for missin’ out on a real sweetheart like you.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well. Thanks. I’ll just go run and tell him that the lady who holds my hair back every night says I’m a real catch.” He raised his glass to her, in mock toast.

“Sweetheart,” Cheryl sighed, “if he doesn’t love you at your shit-faced, he doesn’t deserve you at your cheesy-2am-karaoke.”

“Hey now,” Dean frowned. “I do that cheesy karaoke ‘specially for you Cheryl, and you love it.”

Cheryl laughed.

“God help me, I do.”

She grabbed the pitcher to top up his water.

“Maybe one of these times you’ll bring your Clarence in here, and he’ll get to witness you in all your Right Said Fred glory,” she teased.

Dean made a face. “‘Clarence’? I think I preferred ‘Mr. Blue-Eyes,’ and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Well,” Cheryl shrugged, “you said he was an ‘angel’ so, seemed like a good fit.”

She finished restocking the last of the clean pint glasses back on the shelves, then turned around and reached for the pitcher at Dean’s elbow, which he had dutifully drained.

“Alrighty,” she said, pleased. “Looks like you’re ready, mister.”

She set the dirty glasses in the sink, then pulled a tattered spiral notepad from under the bar, flipping it open to the last scribble-filled page.

She cleared her throat, then began.

“In what episode,” she recited, “did Doctor Sexy MD change from his signature brown-and-teal cowboy boots to all-brown boots with studs and tassels?” Cheryl quirked a brow, examining him carefully.

Dean smirked, then stood and shrugged on his jacket.

”That would be season 5, episode 8, ma’am.”

“Ding ding ding!” Cheryl smiled. “That’s my boy.”

She felt around under the bar for a moment, then pulled out his keys triumphantly, tossing them to him.

”You are good to go, honey.”

Dean smiled, catching her toss with practiced ease, then headed for the door.

“Thanks, Cheryl,” he called over his shoulder. “See ya tomorrow.”

* * *

Deft, sure hands, were gripping him tightly. Reshaping him, moulding him, carving him from clay. Making him whole. Each stroke seared into his new flesh, branding him, claiming him. A deep voiced echoed through the haze…

_“Mine”_

Dean woke with a start. His sheets were soaked in sweat, and his hand was halfway down his boxers. _Dammit._

_“I feel it in the morning. You’re still here in the morning."_

Dean shoved his face into his pillow and groaned, then immediately winced at the sound. Okay, so maybe he overdid it a bit last night.

Dean sat up gingerly, trying not to agitate his already queasy stomach. He stretched and rubbed at his neck, which was surprisingly okay, considering the complete lack of consideration he’d given to his skeletal makeup when he’d finally flopped into bed.

Dean shuffled over to the sink to splash some cold water on his face. As he patted off his skin with the nearest clean towel, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. _Oof._ He’d seen himself after some pretty bad scrapes, but right now he looked like a paperback that had taken a ride in a spin cycle. He gripped the sides of the sink, and stared down his reflection.

_Alright, Dean. Enough._

Maybe it was the miserable hangover, or maybe it was the ego boost from his three-for-three combo he pulled last night, or maybe it was a little of column A, a little of column B.

It didn’t matter. Dean was done. Done pretending this thing didn’t exist. Done depriving himself, punishing himself, telling himself he didn’t deserve this.

Dean had to confront this now, head-on, before things got any worse. Really get it all out there: souls-bared, hearts on the line, and insecurities be damned.

Well. That was all well-and-good in theory, but in practice, Dean still couldn’t help but feel a little bit in awe of Castiel, even after he’d lost his grace and gone off the deep end for a while. Above all else, Cas was still an Angel of the Lord, A Warrior of Heaven. After “Apocalypse, Interrupted,” Dean Winchester was just... some guy.

How in the hell was he supposed to walk up to a literal celestial being, older than the Earth itself, and say, “Hey, so I’ve been thinking. I’d like to upgrade our existing eye-fucking arrangement to some full vessel-on-vessel sex. What’dya say?”

See? Clearly he needed to send that pitch back to the writer’s room. He should focus instead on things he could actually control, like the location of this impending confession.

The Bunker was preferable, of course. Home field advantage. If shit went south, Cas could just bolt, and then that would be that. Dean would just throw up some angel warding on the walls and try to forget Cas ever existed.

As bleak as that all sounded, Dean knew from experience that it could definitely be worse. One time, John had caught him with his pants down, literally, in the back of the Impala, with the tight end from his high-school-of-the-week’s football team. Dean wasn’t sure if John was more pissed off about him being with a guy, or the fact that he was with said-guy in his beloved car, but it didn’t really matter. John made his feelings perfectly clear, the way he always did: by way of Dean’s swollen jaw, his busted nose, and a couple of bruised ribs. Dean didn’t go on a hunt for 6 months after that.

But Cas wasn’t John. Dean needed to remember that.

So it seemed like the only problem with The Bunker was Sam. He could walk right in on them at any possible moment, and while Dean was getting more and more comfortable with his sexuality as years went on, he still had absolutely no idea how his little brother was gonna react to that bit of information. Dean didn’t wanna take that risk with something this crucial hanging in the balance.

So, The Bunker was out.

Maybe a motel, then?

Dean liked that idea. Neutral territory. Everyone could come or go as they pleased. Plus, it had the added benefit of being semi-public, with shared walls and everything, so maybe Cas would think twice about smiting his ass if he felt the urge.  
  
And, in the best-case-scenario, where Cas had been just as hung up on all this as Dean was, they’d have a nice, private place to talk it out, and maybe, if Dean was very, very lucky, they work out their shared frustrations on each other.

Alright. Motel it is.

* * *

Dean hopped in the shower, rubbed one out to clear his head, then threw on his best “date night” look. He’d grabbed one of his go-bags from his room and was halfway out the door, when he paused at the entrance of The Bunker for a full minute, debating. Finally, he fished out his pocket knife, made a small incision, then drew a couple anti-angel sigils on the door. Just in case.

* * *

First stop was the liquor store, to grab some reinforcements. Because Dean sure as hell was not gonna do this sober.

Once Baby’s passenger seat was well-stocked with liquid courage, he took her down the highway a ways, further out than he normally would. Then he checked himself into a nondescript motel, somewhere Sammy would never think to look, and parked Baby out front by the security cams, in case anyone got any ideas.

Dean hauled his go-bag and the case of beer into his room, which wasn’t half bad looking, considering the door still used a physical key and the sign outside boasted about their “full-color cable televisions.”

Dean sat down at the table and cracked opened a beer. Then another, and another, and then one more for good luck.

Then he took a deep breath, got on his knees, and prayed.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I’m a dirty rotten tease 😅 But like I said, the sequel is coming very soon! Just like our boys 👀 
> 
> Also, I literally stayed up all night finishing/editing this, so I'm sure there are some typos. You'd be an angel if you let me know where they're at in the comments.
> 
>  **Fun Facts**  
>  \- This song inspired me to write my very first Destiel fanfic, which is technically this one, even though I didn't finish it until months after starting. Now I have over 10 fics in the works in 3 different fandoms...😳  
> \- "Drink You Away" was originally recorded by Justin Timberlake, and while I think Dean might be a JT fan, this bar certainly wouldn't be playing him. So instead, we get Trent Harmon, who was an American Idol finalist, apparently.  
> \- Dean mentions “Season 5, episode 8” of Dr Sexy MD. That episode of Supernatural is “Changing Channels,” where we first meet Dr. Sexy in the flesh.  
> \- I very intentionally left Jordan’s gender ambiguous so readers could fill in whatever they like. Whenever I can get away with not gendering someone at all, I call that a win ✨


End file.
